Predout
by Foe-Star
Summary: A hunter stalks the Mojave Desert, and it's up to the Courier to discover what's happening. But, when this turns out to be a case out of his world, will he be able to stop the killings? Rated T for swearing,and blood.
1. Chapter 1

It was a bright night on the strip, and Gill had just won a fortune. He was a frumpy man from California, with a lucky ace or two up his sleeve...and that's not a metaphor. He was leaving the Tops casino, Arm-full of cash. NCR cash. All in nice little rolls for his trip back to Redding.

His strolls were leading him to the hotel where he had checked in for the night. His steps were excited as he approached the large Vault door on a stick, proudly declaring it was the 21st of its' kind. He ducked into the doorway, trotting past the nice blonde in the suit. He was going to pack his cash away into his brief-case, and head back to California the next day, maybe hiring some muscle in Freeside. Some cheap muscle of course, maybe even just some tough sinew.

As he got through the main hall, past the gambling tables like the ones he had just won big at, he approached the hotel corridors, passing over to room 13, his lucky number and his hotel room. Once inside, he dumped the rolls all over his bed, before passing into the bathroom. Dropping the hat and suit that he thought was dapper looking, he hopped into the tub for the one luxury he couldn't get back home: A fresh water bath. Just one more of these in the morning, followed by a wasteland omelet, and he would book it for Mojave outpost.

As the waters began to wash over his body, he eased himself into the tub, breathing deeply the vapors of the water. As it began to reach his ears, he heard the door to his room open up. He jolted a small bit, rising his head out of the water. Outside were footsteps, going around his room. One pair came close to his bathroom door, but stopped. Slowly, he raised a leg out of the tub, touching it to the cold steel floor. Outside, the intruders were now talking amongst themselves.

"Hey Ren, check out all the dough." Came a high, easy voice. He recognized it from the casino. That must have been his dealer, Stimpson or something.

"Shut up, Stimp. this cats been un-cool, check out this sleeve." That was the mildly Hispanic voice of the floor manager, the rather short fellow who had been watching everyone coming in and out.

"Looks rather dapper, Ren. Ha-ha." A slapping noise followed the laugh, and Gill heard the noise he dreaded. The sound of playing cards hitting the floor.

"Just like I thought, a card carrying cheater! Look at that, more aces than you can shake a stick at. This cats gotta go!"

"Dig." Replied the other, in a hurtful tone of voice. Their steps now were directly outside his bathroom door. Gill had gotten fully up, pulling a satin robe, complimentary of the hotel, around himself. He darted to the other side of the room, but there wasn't an escape route. He had cornered himself in a damn bathroom!

"Oh, Mr. Cheat-eeeeer! We have come for you! A freeeee lesson awaits you out this door!" Came the floor manager, in a sing-song voice.

"yeah, and a clobbering!" Came the other. Another slapping noise.

"Listen, Mr. Cheater, I just wanna talk with you about our policies, and politely take the cash back. Ya hear that, Stimp? Take the cash back to the Tops. I'll have a little talk with Mr. Cheater."

"Uh, okay Ren. But usually you beat people up, don't ya?" Another slap, followed by what sounded like glass breaking. Along with muffled curses.

"Listen, you crazy son-of-a-Bitch! I'm not leaving this bathroom, you hear?" Gills wildly bouncing voice shouted.

"And, and if you keep staying here, my friends won't like it!" _Yeah, lie to him. That's all you got Gill, all you got!_

"Oh, Alright. I did not mean to offend you and your mighty friends. I guess I'll just be off. You know, special deal at the cock-tail bar and all. I couldn't trouble you to come along now, could I?"

"You most certainly could not!"

"Then, I feel it is necessary to impose." And the door slid open, Ren standing there at five-foot five. Gill was easily two inches taller than him, but he was frightened none-the-less. He had a black, devils goatee, and fiery blue eyes. His suit was a striped white one, with loafers like all the other Tops members. But he wore a Pre-War business hat, signifying his difference from other fellows at the Tops.

"How did you-"

"All the Families on the Strip have a key to the hotel. You gotta when you're dealing with scamps like you." Ren put up his dukes, which were wrapped in thick white strips of boxing tape. Gill tried to run, but Rens fist shot into his left eye, closing it forcibly with a big black swell. His left fist followed, knocking into his right cheek, sending teeth flying out into the tub. Gills' last thought was that he screwed, right when Ren brought his right fist down on top of Gills balding head.

Gill opened his right eye, moaning in pain. His left half was on something cool, and metal, which served to numb the pain there, but his right side felt like it was in a clamp. His arms were tied behind his back, and his legs...well, he couldn't feel his legs. Painfully looking down at them, his saw the right one was bruised and knobby at the knee, while the left one was turning in the wrong direction.

"Oh...Oh god..." Gill quietly said, blood and tears forming at his left, swollen eye.

"Nope. Just your buddy Ren." Gill turned quickly, onto his other side. Ren was standing above him on a metal rail, a foot above his head. Gill looked down the length of the rail, horrified to see a slowly approaching pair of lights.

"The Train!"

"The Monorail, if you dig. Now, I asked the bosses what to do, and oh, were they mad. They said,"That little bitch California is gonna get squashed." They didn't tell me how to do it, so i figured a few tons of steel should squash you like a bug."

"NO! Please, I'll give you anything!"

"You don't have a lot to give, I'll grant. But you already are giving me something."

"What?"

"Entertainment and practice. You see, I'm always busy with work, and I never have time to, Practice my Swing." Ren drew a Long, Nine-Iron from behind him, a gleaming steel one with a heavy, heavy head. Gills began to audibly cry now, frightened for his life.

"Yeah, I don't blame you for crying. It's just one-" A smack to Gills side, sending a shock of pain through his stomach.

"Of those-" A smashed rib-cage followed, making Gill wheeze.

"Glorious New-Vegas-" Ren lifted the Iron higher than before, like a pre-war golfer. He prepped the swing, when the rail suddenly made a groaning noise from farther down.

"...What in the hell?" Ren looked down, but saw nothing. He shrugged, pulling the driver up even more than last time and- He slipped.

His foot had gone farther back than necessary, causing him to nearly back-flip off the side of the rail. He gave a short scream, before dissapearing from Gills view. He was silent now, breathing harshly and deeply in pain. His sides were in agony, and he swore he could feel a loose kidney flopping against his liver, or the side of his stomach.

What happened next made his heart jump, even more than when he saw the approaching lights of the monorail car, all shiny and newly repaired.

In front of him, the rails seemed to dent in two places, like heavy stones had just landed on those specific spots. This was seconds after Ren had fallen and now, Rens' shirt was being pulled up by the front, a struggling little man following. The club and hat were gone. Ren was staring wild eyes at Gill for a moment, before his face became a lined, almost mirage like texture. He flew over Gill, and landed right next to him on the tracks. His eyes were up in the air when his shirt was suddenly stained red, blood shooting from two holes in his chest from..._Nowhere._

Ren cried and yelled in pain, as his rib-cage became visible, tearing away at unseen claws to reveal fresh and fast-emptying lungs. They were popped open, silencing him immediately. Gill was silent, even as jets of gore splattered his surprised face. The next part blew his mind entirely.

Almost comically, like some bad cartoon, the spine came up through this hole, tail-bone first, dragging his skull. His whole head skin was deflated in a second flat, as the skull, with comical eyeballs draping its' now up-side down forehead. It hovered a few feet in the air, rising swiftly, as the train aligned with Gills eyes, blinding him. He felt an onrush of swift air as the monorail car went over him. Its wheel-tracks caught on the two dents, and it flopped over on one side, over the railing and onto the desert floor. Screaming and shouts were heard, but no terrible death-knells. Gill didn't even realize he was spared a bloody and gruesome death at the hands of a now dead Casino Watch dog.

After the train fell, he feinted. His consciousness would not reawaken for several days. What happened next was in the hands of someone the Mojave believed perfect for the job.

WELCOME TO MY NEW FALLOUT FAN-FICTION. FIST TRYING TO BE SUCCESFUL CROSS-OVER, SO HOPE IT FITS WELL. USING FALLOUT NEW VEGAS AS THE SETTING, AND THAT TRADITION BOUND DEATH MACHINE, YOU KNOW WHO. THIS WILL NOT INTERUPT THE VAULT, RATHE RIT SERVES AS A BREAK FROM THE VAULT.


	2. Chapter 2

The trees, covered lightly in the spring snow-fall rustled a small bit as a Giant Praying Mantis attempted to climb its' bough. The thing, so violently green and yellow, was making the most terrible noise of clicking mandibles and scraping chitin. Its' multicolored wings sprouted, its' fore limbs waving at the top of the tree with some menacing accompaniment.

In the top of the tree, shivering with cold and red with the inebriation so common amongst his people, sat Harley. Harley was quite a sight then, six-foot seven and wearing the most provocative black leather vest with fur trims, and a horned helmet. His black, weedy mustache descended below his square chin, and his blood-shot eyes turned downward, his lips raising opposite to show yellow, gritted teeth.

His left arm, tattooed with the marks of one loyal to family above all else, reached into his left leg holster, drawing a sawed-off hunting shot-gun, pointing it at the slowly ascending mantis. With some cold jittering, he let off a single shot, sprayed lead scattering into the creatures front. the fore-limbs were separated as it fell downwards, sprawling in pain and dying. He laughed, a manly bass laugh echoing about the mountains around.

With some slow, lumbering movements, he slipped down the trees bough, landing the last five feet with a jump. As he landed, his boots crushed the mantis' head, ceasing its' struggles for life. With a tremendous roar, he spat onto the dead carcass, putting away the empty gun and drawing his combat knife to begin harvesting the important bits. the bits that cost him a whole Saturday Night and morning to aquire.

With powerful cuts, he took the fresh mantis limb-meat, placing it into a small plastic cooler hung onto his back. With a sneer, he spat on the things carcass once more before turning South, sheathing his blade and walking cooly in the snow.

Ahead of him was deeper forest, soon giving way to rocky mountain, and then to the familiar Red-Rock Crags and rocks of his home. His steps took him across the mass-amounts of Big-Horn tracks. He was tempted to give the creatures; only a mile or so in the distance, chase. But thought better of it. He had only so much ammo, and this looked like a herd, not just some roving family.

As his feet continued his walk, he had begun to hear the words of the NCR Rangers a mere thirty feet above him, their radio tower peaking just above his vision, the rest covered by a grey stone incline. He growled at the tower, flipping his middle finger indignantly at the tower. It wasn't that he hated radio towers, obviously.

Harleys' father, Skull, was one of the camp guards at Bitter Springs. He had remembered from boy hood having seen his father, running to help him escape, suddenly die. His head was exploded by some hollow-point long ago, his bloody fragments spraying his only son. Harley was especially angry at the NCR right now, because they won the war.

It was Bull, really. His people had sent their soldiers to aid the NCR at the Dam. He had personally taken down several dozen legionaries in the bowels of the Dam itself. And now the selfish bastards were forcing his people to leave Nevada! They had apparently already forgotten their great aid, and were forcing them to leave the Canyons or Die for Loitering and Drug Exchange.

They were all probably planning for the squads of NCR soldiers that now combed the area both surrounding and within the canyon, ensuring that his people were kept under their thumb until they were spat out into the deadly hot sands of the Mojaves' Easternmost dunes. Harley turned from them, putting his finger back into a tightly clenched fist. As he walked away, he heard a peculiar sound from the camp. Or rather...didn't hear any sound.

He turned again, noticing the words he heard weren't those of rangers but...the radio. no one was actually speaking at the camp itself. Were they all gone now? Were they wiped out by remnant Legionairies, or killed and eaten by Mad Night-Kin? His hands began to itch, thinking of all the military supplies perhaps left behind. He personally could use more twelve-gauge shells like the rangers had for their hunting shotguns, and the food alone would aid his people.

Harley walked to the incline; tongue licking his lips in deep thought, even as his hand caught the first hold in the stone. With little effort, he climbed to the top of the incline, his powerful muscles taking him step at a time up twelve feet, to look over the little outpost. What he saw next would haunt him forever.

The camp was not burned, but the people were butchered. twelve corpses; all masses of musculature and blood, hung from the radio tower at differing heights. The snowy ground was pounded with bloody pools beneath the tower, and the rest of the camp seemed to have been hit by explosive fragments of the stuff, crimson and dark red splattered unevenly across every surface.

Harley had almost gasped, but maybe it was the cold that froze his breath and saved him, or maybe it was just pure dumb luck, but he stayed silent as he heard a noise from the camps receiver.

"Camp ETC, Respond. This is main directory Camp Golf, respond. Kahn Outpost, Respond. God Damn it, what the hell is going on?" Said a surly, old voice. Harley was about to drag himself when he was stopped by the radio itself. The vocal receiver...moved. No, floated smoothly and slowly upwards, near six feet in the air above the ground. A terrible noise sounded, like some mantis' mating in brambles. Then, he heard what sounded like screams, human screams. His face, though cold from air, began to sweat with fear.

As the sound progresses, it all tapered out at the end into a human voice, male and sounding like some Bone-Yard dwelling waster.

"Kahn Outpost." Was what it said, curt and unemotional.

"Kahn Outpost, we have radioing for twenty minutes now. what in the hell is going on up there?"

"Nothing." Harley got up more on his elbows, almost interested more than afraid.

"Nothing? Where is Ranger Killroy? He is the officiated reciever for the camp."

"Out."

"Out where?" The Radio voice was now more irked. More irritated by the lack of emotion and information that the bodiless voice was giving.

"Mountain-Top."

"Mountain Top? What the Hell is he doing up there? Who is this?"

"Must Go." And with that the voice-box dropped into the snow, landing in a small puddle of blood splashing a bit onto the snow and...some of it floated. Floating splatter marks inches off of the ground, clinging to nothing yet acting like they were on some surface. Harley got up a bit more, pebbles falling as his left elbow slipped. He fell down, and stayed there as he heard the clicking noise again.

He couldn't see the camp, grey stone filling his vision. He wanted to move, to some how slip down the incline and return to his people, and never speak again of what he saw, but he felt lodged to the spot with that sour feeling of fear. He could hear the radio, but only momentarily.

"God Damn it, what is Wr-" And it suddenly was silent, replaced by the sound of smashing metal against stone. Harley felt little pieces of glass and tin fall lightly on the back of his head, but he still stood still. Now, the clicking noise was somewhat tamed. It was orderly, clicking only in steady succession, instead of the terrifying clammer of earlier.

Harley finally gathered the muscles of his neck and arms together, getting his upper half to move slowly upwards, his helmet askew slightly, hanging to the back of his forehead. He looked into the camp once more, and saw a brilliantly flashing of blue begin to swim in the air at one point. His right foot shifted in its' hold, and slipped out, dragging him down suddenly, his chin digging into the stone. His fall was quick, and he landed into a large bush, twigs and branches scraping his skin and clothes. his helm had landed more close to the inclines bottom, the horns still pointing upwards. He groaned, trying to lean his body against the bushes base, when he heard a loud sound, like a whole crate full of ammo dropping onto cement. He looked over, and saw nothing still, But he could see tracks in the snow. Two large footprints, each about a foot opposite his helmet. The helmet floated upwards, turning slightly.

And he heard his groan, this time distorted somewhat by the bodiless voice. His eyes were wide open, though he could feel warm blood spilling around the right socket. The helmet seemed to sop at one point, before it jerked upwards so fast he nearly didn't see it go. it dissapeared over the incline, leaving him bleeding and alone in the bush.

He was there for nearly five minutes, silent and breathing like a still wind. When he rose, it was fast, like a Deer dodging the bullet. He sprinted into the woods, leaving the base of the incline far, far away. tree branches and bushes caught him, but he plowed through as if they were not there. He didn't think while he did this, his mind barely even pushing his body to run in primal fear of the unknown, and supposedly dangerous.

It was ten more minutes until he burst out of the trees and onto Red rocks, where he fell to the ground and was rolled by gravity over the side of an even smaller incline. This time, there were no bushes to catch him, and he fell into rough, yellow sand. He screamed, not of pain or hurt, but of fear releasing itself from his chest. He was forcing it our, eyes clenched deeply closed and fists thrashing against the sands, throwing up moats of dusty clouds.

"GOD!" He cried, invoking a name that never meant anything to him, for he thought it was a favored curse of some Wasters. Tears and blood mixed along his face, and spittle was flowing out of his mouth. He was so loud himself, he didn't hear the somewhat loud sound of foot-steps approaching. His eyes opened, the bright-sun flooding his vision white as he hunkered up onto his elbows, blinking and sniffling back his tears.

And he suddenly lurched, eyes widening far more than ever before, as his leather jacket was pulled upwards, his feet leaving the ground. He did not cry, nor roar with battle-fury as some Kahns would have. (And perhaps, this is what truly saved him.)

He felt like he was again in his ritual of manhood, lifted from the ground and about to be slammed and beaten by his peers. yet there, none of his friends or family were present, only forceful and empty air that held him with invisible, strong arms. One arm left his leathers, and a taloned hand of air grabbed his face, pushing it left and right, though he gave no resistance. He felt as if the heat were getting his eyes, for the air was shimmering before him, not like the heat on the black-top roads, but a straight and measured wavering of the air.

And, as fast as he was lifted, he was dropped, making almost no noise as he landed, standing on his feet. He would have fallen, but it seemed his strong leg muscles recovered more quickly than his mind, and he stood staring blankly at the nothingness, the wavering lines then long gone.

SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. AND EVEN SORRIER FOR THE LACK OF FURTHER PLOT...WHICH IS STILL NOT THERE. WORKING ON IT, BELIEVE ME. JUST...WORKING ON IT.


End file.
